


The Flower Fiend

by Rumpelstiltskin_wait



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Meeting, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:52:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpelstiltskin_wait/pseuds/Rumpelstiltskin_wait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The same man has been stealing Belle French's Daisies twice a week for four months. Finally she works up the courage to confront him and find out what he's doing with her flowers, but the answer, and the man, surprise her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flower Fiend

  
Aaron Gold didn’t consider himself a thief, though the majority of the citizens of Storybrooke, Maine, would beg to differ. But it wasn’t true; not really. He was a stern landlord, and at times he could be…merciless, but he wasn’t unfair. People just chose not to read the fine print. If someone’s rent doubled, or they got evicted on short notice, it was their own fault.  It was all right there in the terms and conditions that he so carefully thought out, only to have his renters skim over or skip completely.

In the proper sense of the word, there was only one way Gold could be considered a thief.

Twice a week, on Sunday and Thursday evenings, he flipped the ‘open’ sign on the door of his little pawn shop to ‘closed’ and he walked. He walked and walked, ignoring the throbbing of his lame ankle as he went; that’s what he had is cane for after all. He walked past the diner, and the florist, and the inn, and house after house, but there was always one house that caught his eye. It was just a small thing, one of the only houses in the neighborhood that he didn’t own, which would have been enough to grab his attention if it weren’t for the exterior of the one-story home.

It was an all-around terribly cheery property. The house painted a sickeningly happy shade of sky blue, with a bright yellow door that would surely blind you if you looked directly at it for too long. There was a raised porch with a slatted wooden swing, and an unreasonable number of bird feeders hanging from several hooks along the porch covering. Then there was the yard. There were flowers of every kind _everywhere._ Rows of Sunflowers along the front of the house save for the porch and windows. Two perfectly round Hydrangea bushes on either side of the steps leading up the blue house, and every sort of flower imaginable from there to the sidewalk. And it was all enclosed by a waist high white picket fence. The porch swing, the bird feeders, the white picket fence, it was one big, blue, nauseating cliché; like something straight out of a movie. Which is why Gold didn’t know why he was so drawn to it; but despite himself, twice a week he went out of his way to walk past it. And twice a week he did something completely out of character. He stole flowers.

It wasn’t _really_ stealing, he told himself; the Daisies were hanging –more like overflowing- through the slats of the fence, nearly on the sidewalk. They should have been trimmed, so really, he was doing a public service. Twice a week he walked past the little blue house, and plucked a handful of Daisies without slowing his stride. Twice a week he justified the odd little habit by telling himself that a few Daisies here and there wouldn’t be terribly missed; that no one would ever notice. But that was an entirely incorrect assumption. Someone did notice.

***

 _Twice a week._ Twice a _bloody_ week! Every single Sunday and Thursday like clockwork, that odd man walked past her house and stole her Daisies. Every week!

At first she thought nothing of it when she noticed him through her kitchen window pluck a few blooms as he walked past. In fact, she thought it sweet the first few times. Maybe he was picking them for his wife, bringing her a little bouquet to show how in love he still was. Maybe he was trying to woo a lady friend. Or maybe he was visiting an ailing family member in the neighborhood. So she ignored it; until it continued. Two weeks in a row it happened, then three, then a month, then two months; for months on end this utter contradiction of a man wearing a three piece suit stole her flowers.

After the first three or so times, Belle French started watching for him, trying to catch a glimpse of the man that she had inwardly dubbed “The Flower Fiend”.  He walked –or rather, limped- past at the same time every single time.  5:13 on the dot.

At 5:10 every Sunday and Thursday Belle stood at her kitchen window with a scowl and waited for her “Flower Fiend” to pluck another handful of her precious Daisies. And every time she tried to work up the courage to burst out her sunny yellow door and ask him _why on earth_ he was so compelled to pick her Daisies down to nothing. And every time she stopped herself before she turned the door handle.

She wasn’t a terribly confrontational person, but she wasn’t spineless either. If someone did something to bother her, she wouldn’t let it slide, she would face the issue head on. So Belle wasn’t entirely sure why it was that she couldn’t bring herself to confront the flower thief.

To be completely honest, even from her kitchen window the man gave off an intimidating air. His impeccable three-piece suit, his shoulder length slightly graying hair, his stride, even with a prominent limp, he just looked…powerful. And yet here he was stealing her flowers.

Belle almost always had a sense about people just by looking at them; some might call it a superpower -if they were being melodramatic-. It came with the job; being a librarian, she saw -but barely spoke to- people all day. Aside from extensive reading and gardening, people-watching was a hobby of hers, and she could almost always pin someone down even before speaking a word to them.

For instance, the ruthless –possibly malevolent- Mayor of StoryBrooke, Regina Mills. Or the sweet, timid school teacher, Mary Margaret Blanchard, who seemed to be in some kind of secret relationship with the soft eyed man from the animal shelter –if their not-so-secret rendezvouses in the fairytale section of the library were anything to go off of.

But here was this man. This infuriatingly interesting looking man that wore an expensive suit, but didn’t cut his hair; that looked powerful and intimidating, but stole Daisies from strangers yards; that she had never seen anywhere but walking past her house. And she couldn’t pin him down. 

 _Who was he?_ Did he even live in Storybrooke?  She’d only moved to the little town a year ago, but since then she’d met most of the meager population, and she’d never once seen her flower thief anywhere but in front of her house.  She had to find out who this man was, and most importantly, _why he kept stealing her bloody Daisies._

***

It was a Thursday. Today was the day she was going to do it. She was going to confront The Flower Fiend.  She was going to march right out into her yard at 5:13, just as he walked past, and find out exactly what his excuse was.

It was only 2:30, but Belle was already planning what she would say. Truthfully she’d been planning what she would say to him for roughly 3 and a half months. But this time she was actually going to do it. No matter how intimidating he looked, she would get to the bottom of his flower thievery.

Due to poor funding by the lovely Miss Mills, the library could only stay open until 4:30, giving Belle plenty of time to get home and prepare to face the mysterious man that would no doubt come to steal her Daisies at exactly 5:13. Oddly enough, Belle was feeling a bit anxious about the whole thing. It was like waiting for the plot-twist at the end of a book. The suspense kills you, but at the same time you don’t want to lose the mystery; you don’t want the story to end. Of course that had never stopped Belle from finishing a book, and this was no different.

At 5:09 she started pacing. At 5:11 she started watching out the window. At 5:13 she glanced down the sidewalk and saw no one. He was late. Or maybe he wasn’t coming at all. She didn’t even know who the man was, but suddenly she was worried. Twice a week every week for four months he passed her house at 5:13, but it was 5:14 and still nothing. She knew it was an irrational train of thought, given that she didn’t know the man, and that he was a mere minute late to steal her flowers, but what if something had happened to him? If something had happened to him, she assumed she would find out rather quickly, as news spread quickly through a small, gossip loving town. But how horrible would that be? To find out who her mysterious flower thief was by reading his obituary in the newspaper?  

Then at 5:18, before she had started to irrationally panic, she saw a black-clad figure moving slowly down the sidewalk toward her house. And at 5:19 her mysterious flower thief passed her yard, absently reaching a hand out and snagging a few – _new!_ \- Daisies.

“Excuse me!”

The man stopped dead in his tracks, caught.  
___  
  
Gold wasn’t an emotional man per-se, but days like today, he indulged. He let himself walk a little slower today, letting his guard down a little more than usual as he kicked pebbles into the street. 

It was that god forsaken house that brought the slightest grin to his face. Damn that house. Damn that house and its flowers and its ability to lift even the tiniest bit of darkness from his soul.  Oh but he loved that house, he loved that house and its flowers. Passing that horrible white picket fence that he loved so much, he reached a hand out, glancing down at it as he collected a few pristine white Daisies. Then he heard the tell-tale click of a door opening, and his heart stopped.

“Excuse me!” called a woman’s voice from behind him. It was tinted with something close to a scolding tone and an Australian accent, and suddenly he felt like a boy. Like a silly little boy stealing flowers out of a strangers yard. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then turned around slowly, caught.

___

She had meant to get his attention, but she hadn’t meant to sound quite so…scolding, and she winced at her own tone as she watched the man turn slowly to face her.

She’d seen his face dozens of times from her window, but seeing him here, a mere 10 feet in front of her was entirely different. She hated to admit it, but he was attractive; all sharp angles, off-set by surprisingly soft chocolate eyes. Suddenly she wasn’t feeling so eager to call him out.

“You uh…you took my flowers” was all she managed

The man said nothing, only glanced down where his fingers were grasping a few thin green stems.

“why?” his silence was only rekindling her frustration, “for four months you’ve walked past my house twice a week, and every single time you pick my Daisies. I just want to know why.” She had started strong, but something about the way the man stood today, hunched over just a hair, just enough to make him look vulnerable, made her soften, ending in a sigh.

The man was silent for a moment more, then straightened his back and sighed, “Yes. You’re right. I have been taking your flowers. And that’s terribly inappropriate of me.”

As if she didn’t already find him attractive…he had an accent. _A Scottish accent._

Belle came back to herself, realizing she had practically been gaping at the man, when he hooked his cane over his elbow and reached into his pocket, retrieving a black leather wallet, “I can reimburse you of course…” He trailed off, flicking through his wallet and pulling out was Belle sincerely hoped wasn’t two one-hundred dollar bills.

“I- Wha-“

Wonderful. Now she sounded illiterate. She closed her eyes and shook her head, taking a few steps closer, bringing herself to stand directly in front of him, “I don’t want your money” she said, putting her palms up in front of her, “I just want to know why.”

“Miss, I really would just like reimburse you for the flowers.”

“Just tell me why”

“Miss…”

“Belle”

The man’s brow furrowed, “I’m sorry?”

“My name. It’s Belle, not Miss.”

“Well Miss I really would like to get back to my walk, so if you’d allow me to just-“ he held out the money again, shaking it a bit, desperately trying to get her to take it.

“I already told you. I don’t want your money.” Belle repeated, and suddenly feeling brave, she took another step closer to the man. “I just want you to tell me why.”

The man sighed and leaned his head slightly to the side, his eyes pleading with her.

After a moment she narrowed her eyes at him and spoke, “Fine.” She sighed, still not moving away from him, “Continue with your walk.”

“Thank you.” The man sighed in relief and turned, walking away from her.  
Belle wasn’t sure what possessed her to do what she did next. Maybe it was that she still didn’t know why he stole her flowers. Maybe it was because some part of her wanted to stay with this strange man for just a bit longer. More likely it was a mixture of both that caused her to jog the few steps up the man’s side.

“If you’re not going to tell me why you stole my flowers, I’ll just find out for myself.”

“Wha-“ The man startled, stumbling to the side a bit, and for a split second Belle feared she’d scared him badly enough to make him fall, but he righted himself and stopped, turning to face her with a befuddled expression.

“I want to know who’s getting my Daisies, so I’m coming with you.” She declared, crossing her arms and lifting her chin, trying to make herself look bigger, more confident. When in reality she was only 5’3 –dwarfed even by the slight man in front of her- and entirely uncertain what she was doing.

The man’s mouth opened as if he were about to respond, then closed with an audible snap. He met her eyes briefly, and for a moment she thought he was trying to intimidate her with his silence, trying to make her uncomfortable and hopefully scare her off. But his eyes only showed confusion.

“Well come on then. Someone’s waiting for some flowers.” Belle stated with a smirk, turning on her heel and starting down the side walk.

___

What was happening?

First he’d been caught stealing flowers; embarrassing, to be sure, but an easy enough fix. Then the woman wouldn’t take his money. And now she was following him, insisting that she finds out where he’s taking her flowers. She was brave, he’d give her that. Anyone else would have stuttered an apology and ran in the other direction. She was also beautiful. But he was trying not to think about that too much. He was also failing at it.

He’d caught himself staring at her after she’d declared that she was coming with him, and he really hoped she hadn’t noticed, because he imagined he looked like a fish, gaping at her like he was. She probably thought him confused; which he was. But he was also in slight awe of the woman in front of him.

She was tiny, which was saying something, since he wasn’t a large man himself. She was at least a head shorter than him, and that was with the ridiculous shoes she was wearing. Along with the black heels, she wore black tights, a knee length dress a few shades darker than her aggressively blue home that flared out at her waist, and a lighter blue sweater. It was on the tip of his tongue to make a quip about her apparent love of the color, but it died on his lips when he met her eyes. _Of course_ she had blue eyes. Blue eyes, and rosy cheeks from the slight chill in the air, and pretty pink lips pressed into a tight line; all framed by a few wisps of chocolate curls that had fallen from the loose ponytail at the base of her skull.

He heard and saw that she said something, but he wasn't aware of what exactly it was until she turned and started down the sidewalk in the direction he had previously been walking. He didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, so he followed her, taking note of the way she slowed down to let him catch up when she realized he was following.

For a while they said nothing, just walked. She didn’t ask where they were going, and he didn’t volunteer the information. He assumed she’d figure it out rather quickly.

“Belle French.” The woman said after a few more minutes of silent walking.

Gold hummed in question and redirected his gaze from the sidewalk to the woman beside him

“That’s my name. Belle French.” The woman, _Belle_ , laughed, glancing up at him for a beat then shaking her head.

He knew this was the point where he was supposed to tell her his name, but a niggling part of his brain told him not to. If she wasn’t afraid of him now, she must not know who he is, but she would know exactly who he was once she knew his name, and then she _would_ be afraid.

At the risk of ruining whatever chance he had of having a pleasant conversation with Miss French, after a slight pause, he spoke up, “You can call me Mr. Gold”

He waited for her to stop walking, for her eyes to fill with anxiety and make up some excuse to get as far away from him as possible, but she didn’t. _She laughed_.

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m not. Is that…funny?”

She looked up at him again, longer this time, and shook her head with a smile. This woman was perplexing.

“The people in town…they say things about you.”

He grunted in response, not too keen on hearing what new rumors the townsfolk had thought up this month.

“They’ll hardly say your name actually. They’re afraid of you, Mr. Gold.”

Gold swallowed thickly, anxiously waiting for the moment she would spit that he was a monster and run the opposite direction.

But instead, she laughed again.

“It’s just funny…they act like you’re so scary, and here you are nicking Daisies from my yard.”

She stopped then, and turned to face him, prompting him to do the same.

“ _I’m_ not scared of you, Mr. Gold.” She said softly, keeping her eyes locked with his.

Her cerulean gaze sent a warm shiver down his spine and he let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “That’s a first.”

Belle frowned and furrowed her brow, “Well it shouldn’t be.” She said sternly, lifting her hand to his arm.

The feeling of her fingers pressing into his upper arm made his heart jump, and he inwardly cursed his suit jacket for preventing him from feeling her warmth. Almost as soon as it had come, her hand fell back to her side, but she didn’t move, just stayed in front of him, keeping eye contact all the while. Then she seemed to have caught herself and made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough, looking down at her shoes.

“So…” she started as she slowly turned to face forward again, Gold following suit, “how long have you lived here?”

If Aaron Gold was to make a list of things that he despised, small talk would be high on the list. But he found himself engaging anyway, because with her, for some reason, he found he actually _wanted_ to.

“In Storybrooke? I’ve lost count…no less than twenty-five years I’d say.”

Belle nodded, kicking at a pebble with the toe of her shoe as they walked.

“And what about you? When did you move to StoryBrooke?” He really hoped he was doing this whole small talk thing right, because he couldn’t remember the last time he actually carried on a conversation with someone about anything other than rent or why their precious family heirloom was completely worthless –no one ever seemed to understand that _old_ does not mean _valuable_.

“A little over a year ago…I was looking for a fresh start and I found out a tiny dot of a town was in need of a librarian, so here I am.” she said with a smile

“Ah, the library. That’s why I’ve never seen you before.”

She cocked her head, giving him a questioning gaze

“The library is owned by the town, so I don’t collect rent… Not much of a public library man anyway.” He shrugged

“oh... Why not?”

“The “public” part. As you’ve already learned, I’m not a terribly loved member of our little community.”

Belle frowned at that, “I can’t see why not.” 

“I’m a difficult man to love, I’m afraid” Gold muttered, his tone catching Belles attention immediately.

“Well…” she started, smiling up at him, “aside from your apparent penchant for stealing flowers-“ she nudged his arm gently, making sure he was listening, “you seem like an entirely likeable man.”

“I hate to disappoint, Miss French, but that tends not to be true.”

Belle suddenly found the sidewalk extremely interesting, and a rosy blush crept up her cheeks.

What could he have possibly said to make her _blush_?

“ _I_ like you.”

_Oh._

Gold thought about trying to stutter out a response, but to his relief, she spoke up again,

“I never really believed the things people said about you.”

Gold cleared his throat, hoping whatever he said wouldn’t come out sounding like a pubescent teenage boy, “What are they saying about me these days?” it came out a little higher pitched than he would have liked, but at least he hadn’t stuttered, or worse, tripped.

He didn’t necessarily want to know what lies the lovely people of StoryBrooke had brewed up, but he would find out about them eventually. All the better he finds out from someone who doesn’t believe them to be true.

“Uh… they say that you’re a loan shark…and that if someone doesn’t pay you back, they’ll- uhm-“ she paused and cleared her throat, “that you’ll...hurt them”

Gold chuckled, that certainly wasn’t a new one. “I can assure you, Miss French, I don’t hurt people.”

“No! No, I know! Like I said, I didn’t believe any of it. I mean, surely the sheriff wouldn’t let you get away with it…if it were true, I mean.” She spoke quickly, and then trailed off.

Leaning his body just a bit closer to her, Gold whispered, “unless the sheriff has unpaid debts”

Belle’s eyebrows shot up and she gasped, staring at him wide eyed, mouth agape, the corners of her lips just slightly turned up, creating an adorable expression of shock and amusement, “No! Really?!” She cried in faux disbelief, a playful twinkle in her eyes, “Not Graham!”

Gold smiled down at her, a real, genuine smile. “Just a quip, dearie”

Belle narrowed her twinkling blue eyes up at him and grinned, bumping her shoulder into his arm just a little more forcefully than would be expected from such a slip of a woman.

“So you know Sheriff Graham then? Does our little librarian have a criminal record” Gold teased, knowing full-well the worst thing on the cheery little woman’s record was probably a parking ticket.

Belle giggled and shook her head, secretly relishing in the fact that Gold felt comfortable enough to tease her.

“No! I mean-“ She inclined her head toward him and looked around in faux-worry, “there _was_ that _one_ time.” She quipped, barely able to hide her smile as she said it, earning a hearty chuckled from Gold, “No…I uh…we went on a date once”

He nodded slowly, making a small sound of understanding, “Just one? Dashing men of the law not your type?”

Belle half laughed, “ _Dashing?_ ” she stuffed her hands into the pocket of her blue sweater, because of the breeze, or trying to make herself smaller, Gold wasn’t sure. “No I uh- I actually quite liked him at the time… but apparently the feeling wasn’t mutual”

Gold scoffed at that, “he must be out of his mind” he said before he could register the words. At the realization that he had actually said that _out loud_ , he turned his face away from her, staring intently at the grass popping up along the edge of the sidewalk, trying to focus on anything but what he had just said, and the fact that he was now blushing profusely.

He risked a glance at Belle, fearing he’d gone and ruined whatever little connection they were having, or _had_ had. But what he found was a tentative smile, and cheeks just as red as his own.

“Ah, it’s fine…it was only a few months after I moved here. I’m fully over it. And him. Besides-“ she started, the twinkle coming back to her eyes. In a burst of confidence she continued, “I think my type is a little more…mature.”

Gold just barely prevented himself from coughing and sputtering and looking like an all-around fool. He glanced down at her in alarm…was she…was she _flirting?_ With _him?!_ There was no way though. No beautiful woman, even as strange of a young woman as Miss French, would want to flirt with him.  So he very nearly collapsed when she _winked_ at him. Despite his disbelief, _that_ was undeniable flirting. Now it was his turn to blush at her words. He couldn’t form a coherent thought when his cheeks were burning, and she was walking just a little closer to him than before, so he just smiled warily down at her and kept his mouth shut, lest he said something that made her come to her senses.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while longer; close enough for their arms to brush every few seconds, until the short hedge around the Storybrooke cemetery came into sight.

It took Belle a moment to register where they were before she brought a hand to her mouth and quickly looked up at Gold, eyes wide.

“ _Oh god oh go_ \- I- oh god, Mr. Gold I had no idea.” tears sprung to her wide blue eyes, “I can’t believe I did that! Oh god I’m so sorry. _God_ I’m a terrible person!” she cried, looking up at Gold in horror

“Hey, you’ve done nothing wrong!” Gold assured, placing a comforting hand on her arm

That seemed to only encourage her tears, and she let out a quiet sob, “Yes I did! I yelled at you for taking flowers! Then I intruded on your walk, and then I- I _flirted_ with you for god sake! And the whole time you were taking the flowers to a cemetery! And god, now I’m crying and making it about me when you’re probably hurting and I-“ she rambled, then cut herself off, “You know what I should just go. I’m so sorry Mr. Gold.” She said, turning and attempting to leave as quickly as possible. But a hand on her wrist stopped her before she could take more than two steps.

“Belle, wait.”

Belle looked down at his hand where it gently encircled her wrist, then up at his face where his eyes pleaded with her. _Belle._ He’d called her _Belle._

“I didn’t mind. Really, I didn’t. I- I _don’t_ mind. Please will you- please stay?” he gave her wrist the gentlest tug, urging her back toward him.

She gazed up at him with tear filled eyes, her bottom lip drawn tightly between her teeth, “Really?” she asked quietly, unsure.

“Really.” He answered with a small smile

Slowly she pulled her wrist from his grip, sliding his hand into her own,

“I’ll stay.”

___

He kept his fingers wrapped around hers as they passed under an arch with the words _“Storybrooke Cemetery”_ written in large iron letters. And he held on still as they passed grave after grave, some decades old and nearly enveloped by moss and ivy, some but a few years old and still obviously being kept clean by loved ones.

In the year Belle had lived in Storybrooke, she’d never had a reason to visit the cemetery. She knew where it was purely out of necessity, but she never felt an urge to go in; it wasn’t a terribly inviting place, after all. There were old, gnarled oaks covering most of the land not occupied by graves, creating a canopy of sorts above their heads, only letting beams of sunlight through in patches. The atmosphere sent a chill down her spine and she shivered, grateful to have a warm body next to her, and a soft hand to squeeze.

He led her through a particularly densely wooded area and into a clearing on the other side. The sight before her took her breath away, and tugged at her heart at the same time. In the middle of the small clearing was an oak tree, smaller and younger than the others behind them, and next to it was a single marble headstone.

Belle felt Golds grip tighten as they neared the headstone, and she looked up to see his eyes gleaming with forming tears, and the inside of his bottom lip drawn between his teeth.  They stopped a few feet in front of the perfectly manicured grave and Belles breathe stopped short as she read the engravings.

 **_Baelee Gold_ **  
**_Beloved Son_ **  
**_1991-2002_ **

“He was only 11” Gold said, his brogue thick with emotion.

Belle squeezed his hand and stepped closer, letting her arm press against his. “What happened? I mean- you don’t have to tell me- sorry.”

“You apologize too much” he replied quietly, a sad smile gracing his lips. The smile fell away and he continued, “It was a car accident. I was picking him up from his mothers in Boston…and-“ he paused and lifted the hand still wound around Belles to his face to wipe a tear on the back of his fingers, then cleared his throat, “we got t-boned and uh- they hit the passenger side.”

Belle was vaguely aware of hot tears spilling down her own cheeks as she listened to his voice. She gripped his hand a little tighter, and watched as he stopped trying to restrain his tears, letting them flow freely.

“He was killed on impact…and all I got, was this-“ he said bitterly, and tapped his right ankle with the tip of his black cane. “I had just convinced his mother to give me full custody...I was bringing his home for good…”

Belle bit her lip harder, willing herself to say something, anything. But what do you say to that? He’d probably heard every form of _“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be”_ or _“everything happens for a reason”_ and Belles stomach turned at the thought. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say other than that- I just- I’m so sorry. The death of a family member is a terrible thing, but a child- I- I can’t imagine.”

“You don’t get over the loss of a child…you only get through.”

Belle nodded soberly, trying to think of the right thing to say, but she thought better of it and quickly decided silence was more appropriate.

After a moment, her eye caught on the remnants of a few wilted Daisies lying at the base of the headstone. She released Golds hand and crouched down, clearing away the dead flowers.

“I’m sorry that you don’t have any flowers for him today…that’s my fault.” She apologized after she straightened next to him. Then she had an idea.

Before he could respond and assure her that it was no bother, she was squeezing his upper arm and speaking again,

“You wait here!”

And then she was using him for balance as she slipped out of her heels, leaving them lying haphazardly in the grass.

“What are yo-“

Before he could finish and ask her what _on earth_ she was doing, she had darted into the clearing, running the fifty or so feet to the edge of the woods, and crouching to retrieve something.

As quickly as she had left, she returned, and Gold was able to see what she held.

“Snowbells.” She declared with a smile, holding the little white blooms out proudly.

Crouching down in front of the headstone once more, she stroked her hand over the smooth marble and carefully placed the bundle of flowers on the arch of the stone. “You have a good papa, Baelee.” Belle whispered, ghosting a finger over his name.

When she stood again and faced Gold, his eyes were shining with fresh tears, and he reached his hand out to take hers again, “thank you” he breathed, unevenly lacing his fingers in hers.

They left soon after; Gold whispering an _“I love you, son”_ , and Belle a _“It was nice to meet you, Baelee”_. They walked hand in hand back through the dark maze of crumbling headstones and tangled oaks, not saying a word, but not needing to. Whatever it was that they had between them, it didn’t need words; just being together was enough.

As they neared the iron arch, a fat drop of rain fell, leaving a dark wet spot on the shoulder of Belles sweater. Then another drop. And another. And by the time they’d reached the gate there was a steady drizzle threatening to soak them unless they found cover soon.

“Well uh- I guess I should get home before I get completely soaked-“ Belle said, hesitantly releasing his hand, wishing their _whatever it was_ didn’t have to end just yet.

“Yes. I suppose you should…”

“It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Gold.” She smiled sweetly, wrapping her sweater tighter around herself to combat the growing wind, then turned and started down the sidewalk.

Gold didn’t move as he watched her take the first steps away from him. He glanced down at his hand where he mourned the loss of her warmth, and before he could mentally talk himself out of it, he spoke up, “Aaron.”

Belle spun around immediately, a confused smirk on her lips, “what?”

“Aaron. That’s my first name.”

Belle smiled brightly at that, “ _Aaron._ ” She said, testing the way it sounded on her lips.

“You know, my house is closer than yours, right down the street actually, and this storm is only going to get worse-” He started

Belle started back toward him, encouraging him to continue

“If you want, uh- would you like to come have a cup of tea and wait out the storm? If that makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to say yes. I could drive you home if you like I just-“

“I’d _love_ to, Aaron.” She cut him off by coming to his side and looping her arm through his, and Aaron beamed down at her.

Maybe, if they were lucky, this storm would never end.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone would like me to, I think I might continue this story. Comment if you'd like to see what happens while they wait out the storm!


End file.
